


The Voices

by orphan_account



Category: Set the Thames on Fire (2015)
Genre: Anal Plug, Angst, Dom/sub, Figging, Little Space, M/M, Maybe light dubcon, Mental Instability, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-09-13 21:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9142042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The voices tell him what to do, and Dickie fights to keep control and win the approval of the Impresario.





	1. Chapter 1

 

The punishment was well earned, Dickie thought, but that made it no less unpleasant. He shifted from foot to foot in discomfort as his client snapped shut his wallet and thrust a fistful of bills into Dickie’s gloved hand. Without any sort of farewell he ducks out of the vibrantly colored room, leaving Dickie to his own devices. Gingerly he sits on the plastic chair, pointing his toes out in front of him in a bored, childish gesture. His eyes glance over the clock on the wall, and his belly knots with anxiety. It is nearly time for him to meet the Impresario for the rest of his punishment. _He hates you,_ spouts a particularly nasty voice in his head. _I hate you,_ declares another. _You hate yourself,_ says a third. “Shut up,” Dickie mutters to the silent room. The voices fall silent, but he can feel them smirking at him. “You got me into this, remember?”

 

Earlier today he was tasked with serving food and drink to the Impresario and a few of his guests. All went smoothly until the voices started up again, first arguing with each other, and then arguing with Dickie. _My goodness, her hat is just ghastly! Someone should tell her how completely awful it is!_ _Why don’t you tell her, Dickie, sweetheart?_

 

_Go on, do it,_ encouraged another voice, echoing from the recesses of his mind. _Fine, if you won’t do it, I will._ Dickie tried not to abide with the voices, but suddenly the criticism forced its way through his throat and slipped from his lips. The conversation died immediately and the Impresario glared at him from across the table in a manner that made it nothing less than crystal clear that Dickie was to keep his mouth completely shut. And so he did, nodding to himself as he carried the tea tray back to the group, despite the raucous chatter of the voices. In fact, he was concentrating so fully on remaining silent that he failed to notice the warped floorboard in his path, and before he could stop himself he was falling, tea tray slipping from his hands, the extravagant teacups landing in the Impresario’s lap, spilling their contents over him and rolling to the floor and shattering.

 

Sprawled on the dusty floor, Dickie looked up slowly and met the Impresario’s eyes, filled with feral rage. “Get out of my sight,” he growled. “I’ll deal with you later.”

 

“But-” Dickie stammered, desperate to make the Impresario understand what the voices had told him to say, and how he wanted to keep silent, and how he didn’t mean to spill the tea. “I-”

 

“NOW!” The Impresario bellowed, and Dickie scrambled off the floor.

 

Soon he found himself standing in the Impresario’s dark, filthy room, shivering slightly and watching the gentle motions of the Thames below. The voices had reached their maximum volume and his head was flooded with words and phrases he couldn’t quite piece together. He felt like crying, but instead just wrapped his arms around himself and took deep, shuddering breaths.  The quiet sound of the door creaking open made him turn suddenly. The Impresario stood there, looking every bit as furious as he had been over an hour ago. He pulled off his heavy fur coat and tossed it into the darkness. “Come here, Dickie dear,” he said softly, chuckling at his rhyme. Dickie stepped forward uncertainly.

 

Once he was within arm’s reach of the Impresario he found himself being spun around quickly. A heavy hand was placed on his lower back, encouraging him to bend over the table. The Impresario reached out and petted one of his pigtails. He felt his dress being hiked over his hips and his silky women’s knickers being pulled down. “Stay here for a moment,” the Impresario whispered. His cheek pressed against the worn wooden surface, Dickie didn’t dare move to see what the Impresario was rummaging for in one of the many dressers.

 

The Impresario palmed Dickie’s plump arse for a moment before nudging his legs apart. Dickie felt heat flush to his face; he felt so completely exposed. A cold, slippery fingertip brushed over his quivering hole and made him jump. “Shh,” the Impresario soothed, stroking Dickie’s thigh soothingly. He whimpered as the finger pressed into his clenched pucker, twisting and moving insistently forward. “Look at what I have for you,” he purred, setting down a metal object on the table.

 

_A butt plug,_ Dickie realized with a jolt. “I picked it out, special for you. See?” The Impresario rotated it to show him the base of the plug, which featured a sparkly clear jewel.

“No,” Dickie whimpered, “please no-” he yelped as the the Impresario’s hand collided firmly with his backside.

 

“Fuck off, Dickie. You do not get a say in this,” the Impresario said sternly. Dickie settled back down against the table and turned to face the toy once more. _It is rather pretty,_ Dickie thought, admiring the glittery jewel. The Impresario’s filthy fingers reached down and snatched it up, wasting no time nestling it against Dickie’s pink arsehole.

 

Dickie mewled as the cold steel was pushed steadily into him; stretching him wide open in front of the Impresario's eyes. When his hole was stretched around the plug's largest point, the Impresario pulled it out quickly, eliciting a loud wail from his subordinate as his hole spasmed. The Impresario repeated this motion several times before, mercifully perhaps, he let the plug slide fully into Dickie, who clenched down hard on the shaft. “There we go,” the Impresario said soothingly, giving his arse a few more smacks for good measure. "You have a lovely, fat bottom," the Impresario murmured. 

"Thank-thank you, sir," stammered Dickie, shifting from foot to foot, trying to get used to the toy.

The Impresario gathered a placid, limp Dickie in his arms and lead him to the dusty mirror in the corner. Truthfully, the plug was as gorgeous nestled firmly in his arse as it was resting on the table, and a rather depraved part of him felt just a wee bit disappointed that the plug would be hidden underneath his dress and panties rather than shown off as it very much deserved to be. But even more pronounced than the feeling of the heavy plug inside him was the realization that the Impresario was holding him gently. Dickie felt so safe and warm that he tried to snuggle in closer, but found himself being pushed away. The Impresario pulled up his panties and gave him one last pat on the arse.

 

“Now you aren’t to remove that yourself,” he lectured, “at the end of the night you will come see me again.”

 

“But I have to work,” Dickie whined.

 

“Well, I’m sure that mouth of yours can do something else than insult my company,” the Impresario smirked, leading him to the door. Dickie felt rather unsteady on his heels while the plug wobbled and stroked his insides at every step. “Go on,” the Impresario prompted, shutting the door behind him.

 

The rest of the night went by in a blur. His clients came and went, but all he could focus on was the toy buried deep inside him. He felt so incredibly full, which admittedly was in no way an unfamiliar feeling, but it was incredibly distracting nevertheless.

  


Now he found himself climbing the rickety stairs for the second time. The Impresario’s door was in sight, but with every step he grew more and more nervous. The voices screamed louder and louder, but all he could think about was how his arsehole throbbed around the unyielding shaft inside him. He knocked, very gently, and a loud “come in” followed quickly.

 

The Impresario lounged against the table, waiting for him. “Have you been good for me? Have you kept the plug in?” Dickie nods quickly, eager to please. “Good Dickie,” the Impresario praises, and the words melt his anxiety away. “Now come here,” he said, patting the table. Dickie bends over and the Impresario positions his legs just how he wants them. “Perfect,” he breathes, and pride swells in Dickie’s chest once more. Gently, almost tenderly, he unties Dickie’s panties and lets them fall to the ground. He nudges his thumb up against the jewel, making the plug grind inside Dickie, who moans loudly, pressing his arse up towards the Impresario. He smacks it lightly a few times, relishing the way it bounces and jiggles.

 

Impatient now, he only takes few more moments to tease Dickie before roughly removing the plug, prompting another moan at the loss. “Oh shut up,” he grunts, inserting three fingers into his hole with ease. “God, you’re so loose.” Dickie hears the noise of a zipper before the head of a thick cock is pressed up against his hole. He whimpers as the Impresario sinks into him urgently.

 

“Oh fuck,” Dickie moans, voice quavering. “Fuck fuck fuck.” He thrusts his hips back against the Impresario, a slave to his own pleasure. Firm hands grip his pigtails and pull, hard, using them as more leverage. Dickie’s red, painted fingernails scratch into the table, desperate for some kind of grip as he is pounded into a quiet, dreamy headspace that only the Impresario can put him in.

 

“Fucking idiot whore,” the Impresario bellows, beginning to beat and scratch at Dickie’s exposed back. The pain seems to send a jolt through Dickie’s system and he begins to feel his orgasm build up in his tummy.

 

“Ohh, Impresario, please,” he begs, although he’s not sure what it is he wants from the stronger man. He clenches around the Impresario and screams as his release rushes out of him. The Impresario follows just after, and he guides them through their climaxes, slamming Dickie’s hips down into the table once more before pulling out.

 

Dickie feels his legs go weak and he slides off the table, lying crumpled on the grimy floor. The only thing he can think to do is reach out and nuzzle the Impresario’s foot with his cheek, begging for some kind of attention or approval. He wants the Impresario so dearly, wants him to hug him or snuggle him or in any way make him feel human again. The Impresario looks down and meets Dickie’s gaze. He looks so little and so helpless and so broken that the Impresario can’t help but crouch down and stroke Dickie’s face reassuringly. He stares up at him with hopeful eyes, asking for something more, but the Impresario just turns and exits the room silently.

 

Dickie watches the dust stir up behind him before he notices the pressing silence. For once, the voices are completely silent. Alas, the absence of the mindless chatter makes him feel only increasingly alone, so he curls into an even tighter ball and begins to sob, wishing for someone to hold him, to comfort him, to love him.

  
There is no answer.


	2. Little One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small little add-on to the previous chapter. Quite fluffy, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking of adding a few more chapters after this to really explore Dickie's character some more.

Sometimes Dickie enjoys feeling little. Actually, that isn’t entirely true. He always feels little, but he enjoys taking the adult mask off every now and then. Now seems like a good time to do this, curled up on his bed, listening to the distant sound of music echoing around the damp hallways and trying to dry the tears from his face. He reaches down to the nightstand drawer and rummages around, pulling out a worn coloring book and a box of crayons. He settles down on his stomach, wrapping the blankets tightly around him.

He hums as he colors the shapes, being extra careful to stay within every line. The room, lit brilliantly with pinks and greens, is quite warm and, combined with the layers of blankets, Dickie feels completely safe for the first time in a while. He presses his thumb against his lip, resisting the impulse to suck it. What if someone saw? _Don’t be silly,_ he chides himself. Even the voices had left. No one is around.  Gently he slips his thumb between his painted lips, sucking softly at first. Instantly he relaxes even more, pondering why he ever pretends act grown-up, and then all coherent thought slips away from him. 

He recalls the day’s events in a series of bright pictures, but with them the anxiety begins again. _Why did the Impresario hit me? Why did he pull away from me? Does he hate me? Did I displease him? Oh, please don’t let him be angry with me - I tried so hard!_ Dickie bites his thumb nervously and colors with firm, quick strokes of his crayon. He whimpers quietly, one million different scenarios that will likely never ever happen flashing through his mind. He drops his crayon and pulls the blankets over his head, curling into a tight ball, trying to return to the safety he felt just a moment before.

He peels the blankets away and walks stiffly to the hamper in the corner, pulling out his most very soft dress and favorite stockings. Wrapping himself in the soft material and feeling the silky stockings on his legs is just as comforting as sucking his thumb, and he flops back down on the bed. "You're going to be okay, Dickie," he murmurs to himself around the thumb. At some point he drifts away into the clutches of sleep. In a few hours or so he will wake to the voices screaming all sorts of profanity and hate towards him, but now he is tumbling through the magnificent now, warm and secure, and the harshness of the world all but fades away.

  
  



	3. The Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dickie finds himself in trouble once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains spanking and figging. Enjoy!

Sometimes the drugs numb the voices, but sometimes the chatter is only amplified. It’s a gamble, but at the moment Dickie has no choice but to take the risk. After a handful of pills the voices are all but a murmur. He collapses against the bed, mind spinning into another world. He can’t count the moments between swallowing the brightly colored capsules and the Impresario barging into his room just as he’s coming down, but it can’t have been that long, right?

 

_ Right, Dickie?  _ He asked himself, trying to calm down. 

 

“I’ve been waiting on you!” the Impresario shouts, large hands wrapping around Dickie and dragging him roughly to his feet. He wobbles a bit, dizzy and confused. The Impresario growls out of anger and pulls Dickie towards the door by one of his pigtails. He stumbles and falls into the Impresario, who pushes him away. He trips in his heels and ends up on the wet, grimy floor. The Impresario heaves him up and tosses him like a ragdoll over his shoulder. 

 

The Impresario carries him upstairs, opens the door and throws Dickie to the ground. “I’m sorry Impresario,” he whimpers, resisting the impulse to curl up and suck his thumb.  _ Don’t fucking do it,  _ the voices cry,  _ don’t fucking act like a baby. Idiot. You’re an idiot.  _ “I’m so sorry,” he repeats.

 

“Oh, you’re going to be,” he growls. Dickie starts to cry, big fat tears slipping down his painted face. “Shut your blubbering,” the Impresario commands. “I waited for you. You were supposed to serve at the party tonight. Everyone was excited to meet you, but instead you stood me up. You embarrassed me.”

 

And the Impresario certainly did not like to be embarrassed. 

 

He takes a seat in the battered wooden chair in the corner, staring down at his sobbing assistant, trying to decide what to do next. “Yes,” he mutters to himself, reaching down. Dickie wails louder as the Impresario grips his waist firmly and lifts him onto his lap. “I told you to shut up,” the Impresario says crossly, balancing Dickie over his knees so his bottom sticks up in the air. Dickie sniffles and takes gasping, shuddering breaths.

 

The Impresario’s hands reach for his silky panties, tugging them off quickly. He sighs appreciatively, running his hands over the curve of Dickie’s arse. Dickie feels himself flush; it’s so humiliating, being pinned over the Impresario’s lap, completely exposed to his eyes. The Impresario nudges a finger against Dickie’s arsehole but doesn’t penetrate him, just rubs the twitching pucker in a motion Dickie nearly finds soothing. “Now,” the Impresario breathes, reaching for something, “now we begin.”

 

The paddle collides firmly with the right side of Dickie’s arse, and he shrieks loudly, nearly toppling off of the Impresario’s sturdy lap. “Dickie!” he scolds, firmly pressing him back down. “Count!”

 

“One!” Dickie gasps, trying not to flinch away.

 

“Two!” Oh, it stings!

 

“Three!” The Impresario wraps an arm around Dickie’s middle to keep him still. 

 

“Four!” As the paddle collides with his reddened skin once more, Dickie notices a growing heaviness between his legs. Mortified, he tries to squirm backwards just a bit so the Impresario won’t feel his erection pressing into his lap but just as he moves the paddle swings down again-

 

“Five!” Dickie moans loudly, the sharp sting of the paddle sending a buzz throughout his body. The Impresario tightens his grip around Dickie and pulls him close, grinding his hardness against his leg. The Impresario stills suddenly, then rises to his feet, letting Dickie tumble to the floor. 

 

“You stay right there, you little slag,” the Impresario grumbles, then swiftly leaves the room. Dickie waits a few seconds before looking about his surroundings. He could get up, put his panties back on and leave easily. He doesn’t have to sit and wait here for the Impresario to return and finish spanking him or do god knows what else to him. 

 

He doesn’t have to submit to the Impresario, but it feels wrong, somehow, to get off the floor and leaves. So he waits, watching the specks of dust flutter about in the moonlight streaming through the stained window.

 

The Impresario returns a few minutes later, clutching something in his grubby fist. “Up!” he commands, returning to the chair and patting his thigh. Having to position himself over the Impresario’s knee is even more embarrassing than being put there, and he feels the blush return to his cheeks with full force. The Impresario reaches between Dickie’s legs and strokes his hardness. “Enjoying this, are we?”

 

“No,” squeaks Dickie, but the Impresario’s firm strokes make his hips jut downwards, earning him a light smack on his arse. 

 

“I have something to take care of that,” the Impresario announces, pressing a small object into Dickie’s hole. He gasped as a gentle, warm heat began to radiate through him. “Ready?” the Impresario asked, but before Dickie could answer the paddle slammed down again. He clenched around the object, and the heat intensified, becoming almost painful.

 

“What-” Dickie starts to ask.

 

“Ginger,” the Impresario answers. “Figured a little burning in your bottom might make you behave.” As soon as the words left his mouth the paddle crashed down hard, and the resulting clench makes the searing heat intensify. The strokes of the paddle get harder and closer together, and Dickie is helpless to the sensations. The stinging from the spanking mixed with the scorching, burning warmth send delicious shivers up his spine, taking him to heights he had never known. 

 

Two very hard smacks land on his arse, and then the Impresario is pulling him up, reaching down and removing the sliver of ginger. “Ok, Dickie?” Dickie can only stare up at the Impresario, unable to speak or communicate. “You’re okay,” he decides, and rubs Dickie’s reddened arse fondly. 

 

He walks Dickie to the door and says nothing as he gently nudges him outside. As he walks shakily down the steps, he realizes he forgot his panties. But one mustn’t be a bother, especially not towards the Impresario, so he steps carefully to his room and shuts the door. Thumb securely in his mouth, he sucks gently as he strokes himself to the events of the night. Finishing quickly, he buries himself beneath the blankets, still incapable of verbal thought.

  
He exists on a plane where one can only be, without the plague of thought or feeling, and there is no better state to live in.


	4. Cupcakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cupcakes and the Impresario are what Dickie needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - this chapter contains mention of an eating disorder.

Dickie lay on his bed, eyes burning in his skull. The clock in the corner ticked painfully slowly, counting down the seconds until he could sleep and escape his self-inflicted torture. He felt like crying, he felt like sucking his thumb, but he couldn’t muster the energy for either. His head throbbed tenaciously.  _ Is this what dying feels like? _

 

It had started with a friendly joke and the Impresario poking a finger at Dickie’s slight paunch. Harmless fun, one might say, but deep down Dickie knew that the Impresario found him fat and disgusting. Any time afterwards, the voices would remind him of this whenever he reached for food. They became more and more bothersome, and soon he barely ate at all.

 

Dickie had tried to hide himself from the Impresario’s gaze for weeks. No one should have to look at him, gaze upon his revolting body, until the weight had been lost. He reminds himself of that as his mind wanders to the thought of the brightly colored cupcakes in the pantry, a gift from someone.  _ No, Dickie, you can’t have any,  _ he scolds. But still he imagines the way they’d taste, all creamy frosting and moist, spongy cake. 

 

He still imagines them as the Impresario drags him off to his quarters to fuck him. As he is pressed into the table and his dress is hiked up, he still dreams of food. His head throbs and he doesn’t feel like getting a rough pounding, but he stays still for the Impresario. Rough hands grab his bony hips and massage them slowly. He expects the tears to well in his eyes but none come. 

 

“Christ, you’ve gotten skinny,” mutters the Impresario. “Is it the cocaine?” Dickie shakes his head. “Why, then?” A pitiful whimper wrenches itself from Dickie’s throat. “Use your words,” he prompts.

 

“You said I was fat,” whispers Dickie. 

 

“Whenever did I do that?” the Impresario says in disbelief. He pulls Dickie up and turns him around to face him.

 

“You poked me and then said that my tummy was getting fat,” he recalls.

 

“Dickie, I liked your tummy. You starved yourself because of a joke I told at a party months ago?”

 

He snuffles and nods.  _ How stupid, _ a voice says.  _ Really, it’s simply incredulous. Idiot. _

 

“What did you eat today?” the Impresario asks suddenly, voice strict and harsh. 

  
“I-” Dickie starts. It wasn’t much at all, and he felt very ashamed. “A slice of bread,” he squeaks.

 

“And what else?”

 

“That’s all,” he whispers, staring at the floor.

 

“Dickie!” 

 

“I’m sorry!” he cries. 

 

“It’s alright,” the Impresario soothes. “Do you have food at your place?” Dickie nods. “What kind?”

 

“Cupcakes,” he says softly. The Impresario grins at him with broken, stained teeth. 

 

“Let’s go eat cupcakes, then.”

* * *

 

Five minutes later Dickie finds himself perched over the Impresario, who is sitting in one of the yellow, plastic chairs. The hands find his hips once more and guide him onto the fat prick, stretching and stuffing him so perfectly. Once Dickie is settled on his lap, the Impresario reaches for the tray of cupcakes sitting beside them. “I loved it when you were all plumped up,” the Impresario hisses lustfully. “And I’m going to make you plump again.” Dickie stares at him dazedly, blue eyes clouded with emotion. The Impresario peels the wrapper off of a pink cupcake and holds it to Dickie’s painted lips. His tongue darts out to lap at the frosting, and the taste of the sugar sends fireworks off in his brain. “Go on, ride me,” the Impresario prompts. Dickie obeys and slides upwards very slowly, relishing the near-painful stretch. He shrieks a little as he drops back down, the head of the Impresario’s cock nudging at  _ that  _ spot inside of him. 

 

The Impresario pushes the rest of the cupcake into Dickie’s mouth and reaches for another one. Dickie has found a rhythm now, letting out little squeals at the end of each stroke. The Impresario gives the entire cupcake to him at once, not seeming to mind that most of it ends up on his face instead. Dickie throws his head back and moans the Impresario’s name. 

 

Dickie’s pace increases, little screams echoing from his mouth when it isn’t full of cupcake. The Impresario clutches Dickie’s hips and moves him back and forth, since he’s gone completely limp. “Oh, Impresario!” Dickie screeches as he comes all over his boss’ lap. The Impresario follows soon after, and they sit there for a moment, panting. Dickie tumbles to the floor, where he gazes devotedly at the Impresario, nuzzling his leg.

 

Dickie grins, face smeared with frosting. “Dickie is all fucked out and he ate six cupcakes,” he says.

 

“Yes, you did,” the Impresario agrees. He gives Dickie an affectionate kiss on the forehead. “Please take care of yourself, Dickie. Hell, I’ll cook for you even, if it means you’ll eat again.”

 

“I’d like that,” says Dickie. 

 

“Goodnight then.”

 

“Goodnight, Impresario,” Dickie replies, resting his head next to the empty cupcake tray.

 


	5. Can You Make me Feel like Home if I tell You You're Mine?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure smut with some fluff at the end.

It has been too long, much too long, since Dickie had the Impresario's full attention. He had been busy with his women and Dickie with his clients, but one cold night finds them together in Dickie's bedroom.

 

The Impresario lifts Dickie's hips up, running a hand over the curve of his arse. He presses Dickie's shoulders down, shifting his position, making his bottom stick straight up in the air. The Impresario leans forward and darts his tongue out, barely brushing the younger man's pink hole. Dickie squeals in suprise, lurching forward. "No, no, Dickie, come here," the Impresario says, pulling him back. "Shhh," he soothes. "Shh-hh-hh." He teases his tongue gently into the quivering pucker, hands roughly squeezing and grabbing whatever parts of Dickie he can find.  Dickie reaches for a nearby pillow and pulls it close, twisting the edges and biting it to muffle his little noises.

 

Dickie shrieks loudly as the Impresario's unrelenting tongue plunges repeatedly into his tight rim, making his hips squirm as he rocks against the pure, unbearable pleasure in his arse. "Yesss," hisses the Impresario, "yes, Dickie, you like that, don't you?" He can all but nod and whimper helplessly. Oh, he feels hot, burning up, unable to do anything but beg the Impresario for more. The Impresario reaches down, first cupping Dickie's balls and then stroking his cock, slowly but firmly. He pauses his motions and reaches for Dickie's hips once more, pulling him up into a kneeling position. He tugs away the pillow that Dickie has been holding and tosses it to the floor. 

 

The Impresario rises, stepping off the edge of the bed and turning to look at Dickie. He gazes back through the stray pieces of yellow hair framing his face, blue eyes glazed and tired. Suddenly the Impresario shoves him, hard, and he flops over onto his back. The Impresario follows, climbing on top of him and shoving his legs apart.

 

Dickie pants loudly as the Impresario presses into him. "Owwwee," he complains. "Oh-ohhhhh, please!" 

"Need a minute?" The Impresario asks, stilling his motions. Dickie nods and tries to relax. "There, that's it," he says, almost tenderly. "That's it," he repeats, in a low whisper. Dickie moans softly, gazing up at the Impresario above him dazedly. He flails his arms out, feeling the softness of the rumpled bedsheets and the Impresario's arms planted sturdily on either side of him. 

 

"So very good," he says softly, breath hitching as the Impresario thrusts faster. His legs wrap around the Impresario's hips quite firmly and his fingers tangle in the sheets."Harder!" he gasps impatiently, pulling urgently at the twisted fabric. "Impresario! Oh..." With every thrust his cock rubs up against the Impresario's belly. 

 

"You fucking take it," he growls, reaching to tug at Dickie's pigtails. It's a motion that he has come to associate very closely with the Impresario, and, on some lonely nights, he does it to himself, pulling on his hair as hard as he can, pretending his boss is there with him.

 

But the Impresario is here, now, inside of him, and Dickie locks his legs and arms around him as he climaxes, screaming, his painted nails digging deep lines into the Impresario's back. The Impresario follows soon after, and rolls to the side, even through Dickie never let go. 

 

"Come on," the Impresario prompts, poking at Dickie's side. Dickie only shakes his head and clutches harder. "Do you want a cuddle? Is that it?" the Impresario asks.

 

"Yes," whispers Dickie, barely audible, face buried in the crook of the Impresario's neck. 

 

"Come on then," he says, nudging Dickie off and rolling over on his side. He pulls Dickie close, fitting him perfectly into the curve of his body. "Mmm," he sighs, stroking Dickie's hair absentmindedly. Dickie resists the urge to giggle and kick his feet or express any other sign of childlike excitement. It is rather late in the night, and they drift through a half-sleep of sorts, barely conscious. 

 

The Impresario is roused by the sound of Dickie sucking his thumb. "Oh, you're cute," he chuckles. Dickie stiffens, but doesn't say anything. Face blazing red, he avoids making eye contact with the Impresario. "No, I mean it. You are cute. Hmm?" he says, pressing a fingertip to Dickie's lips. He looks uncertain for a moment, but then sucks slowly, closing his eyes. 

 

He falls asleep before the Impresario, who gives him one last kiss on the cheek before leaving the bed.

 

"Goodnight, Dickie," he whispers.

 

 

 

  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait on this one! But seriously, if you have any suggestions/ideas/prompts for this story please please please let me know!


	6. Green Envy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dickie is jealous when a new girl catches the Impresario's eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt: ok im not sure if this is good or not but I was thinking of a chapter that really plays into jealousy, like the Impesario starts sleepin on the regular with one of his workers or maybe a prostitute he picks up regularly or someone and he starts inviting her to parties and things and her and Dickie dont get along well and maybe shit goes down?? idK??
> 
>  
> 
> I'm sorry this came out so short! Anyway, enjoy!

The comb pulls through tangled, wild, bleach – blond hair. Hasty hands pull clumps of it back into two mismatched pigtails. Red lipstick glides over a thin, trembling mouth. A finger smears messy eyeshadow carelessly over fluttering lids. Pink powder billows up into the air as a brush is ran back and forth over the compact of rouge. A line of crimson runs over each defined cheekbone. Stockinged feet step into worn silver boots.   
Dickie takes one last look in the mirror and nods at himself. Your lipstick is too bright, nags a voice. He ignores it and steps back, spinning in his new dress to admire it from all angles. Perfect. For once he has confidence in his steps as he strides up the worn staircase to the Impresario’s party. 

“Ah, Dickie!” roars the Impresario jovially as he sets his dark eyes on him. “Come here. I’d like you to meet someone.” Dickie follows the Impresario’s beckon and hurries to his side. “This is Candice,” he says, nodding to a woman standing on his left. She’s still young but has that empty look in her eyes that Dickie is all too familiar with. He can’t help but feel jealous of her though. Her lipstick matches her lightly blushed cheeks perfectly, and her eyeliner is perfectly straight. She looks at him with big green eyes, slightly surprised and slightly disgusted by Dickie. 

Dickie moves to sit down but is shooed away by the Impresario. “That’s Candice’s seat, Dickie. You sit there.” He points down the table of people chattering merrily away and the only empty seat, which is at the far end of the table. Dickie huffs and stomps off towards his seat, ignoring the Impresario’s call of “Manners, Dickie!” What makes Candice so special? He thinks angrily.   
Dinner flashes by and most of the guests have dispersed, ladies of the night hanging off their arms. The Impresario has gone upstairs to his quarters, as he often does after dinner, where he waits for Dickie to satisfy his urges. Dickie hurries upstairs. At least they still have this time together, Candice or not. 

As he approaches the Impresario’s door, he pauses, cocking his head. No, he’s quite sure he’s hearing right. The unmistakable sound of a woman moaning echoes through the battered wood. He opens the door carefully and freezes.  
Candice is laying on her back, legs thrown over the Impresario’s shoulders, moaning loudly and out of time to the Impresario’s thrusts. The noise of the door creaking open makes the Impresario look up. His face contorts into a bizarre expression at the sight of his subordinate. “Get the fuck out!” he bellows. Dickie scrambles off, slamming the door behind him. A muffled thud resonates through the hallway, and the sound of Candice shrieking. The door opens once more as the Impresario shoves Candice out of the room. She stumbles and trips on her ridiculously tall heels. 

Dickie doesn’t stop running until he’s back in his room. He throws himself on the bed, sobbing. How could the Impresario choose her over him? Dickie clutches his pillow close, wailing in distress.   
He doesn’t notice someone else enter his room until a hand traces over his back, making him jump. “Dickie, what’s the matter?” asks the Impresario. Dickie only shakes his head, unable to get words out amongst the sobbing. “Is this about Candice?” Dickie nods. “She’s a filthy whore, Dickie. Only wanted to use me for money. Okay? I threw her out.”

Dickie doesn’t answer, sniffling into the pillow. “Shush now,” soothes the Impresario. Dickie smiles to himself as familiar hands lift his dress and pull his frilly panties down.


End file.
